Illusions
by the lola
Summary: "And he watches her, his heart and his soul and his body and his mind all longing and screeching out to her, attacking him from the inside and demanding him to love this girl."


He doesn't comprehend _how_, or _why_, or _when_ it happened. He wishes he could pinpoint the moment, but he can't.

She enthralls him, even if he doesn't understand her. She's woven herself deep into his mind, his skin, his _heart_ and it frustrates him but it excites him and he just _can't _focus anymore.

The lines of who he's supposed to be are _blurred_ because of _her. _He wants to scream, to shake her and order her to **get out **of his _core_. He's sure he doesn't have a heart, sure he couldn't _possibly_ have a heart, but now it is there every time she skips past, beating rapidly and flooding his entire being with life.

But there's a glass wall in between them. He _wants_ to say something, to talk to her, to touch her, to _love _her, but he doesn't want to bring her into his world. She wouldn't love him, _couldn't _love him. Too pure, too compassionate, too innocent, too _Luna_.

And he watches her, his heart and his soul and his body and his mind all longing and screeching out to her, attacking him from the inside and _demanding_ him to _love_ this girl.

He finds it hard to believe that the feeling mauling him in every inch of his body is _love_, but then again, he knows it's not possible for it to be anything else. "_Love is painful. Love when it's not returned feels like thousands of glass splinters are being plunged through your heart for every second of unrequited love you have to feel._" His Father tells him this, so what else does he really have to go on? This is exactly what he feels like.

But the voices in the back of his head won't stop aggravating him, because they think he should just _talk _to the beautiful blonde girl with the radish earrings who barely glances in his direction.

He doesn't know how to describe the utter perfection rolling off of her in waves and incarcerating his heart. She is _faultless, unblemished, unequaled, unmarred, untainted, untarnished_, and he perplexes himself for he knows all of those words mean the exact same thing: perfect.

In a way, he doesn't want her to return his feelings because he will _ruin _her. He's sure of it; his damaged childhood ensures that he'll **never** be able to function properly. His friends don't truly matter- they are only really friends in the sense of the word, he doesn't care for _them _like he does _her_.

She stands near him by the lake, but she is of course oblivious to his presence. Her blonde locks shine in the light, her pale faces loveliness is only further highlighted by the beautiful day, and her cerulean eyes reflect the sun and the lake, their glittering almost exceeding that of fireworks, of candles, of fire.

He shakes his head vigorously as she catches him staring and cocks her head, eyeing him inquisitively with those beautiful eyes. Hope flutters up inside of him like the smallest bubble because she frowns, seemingly looking to find the right words to say, but the bubble is popped in seconds and the hope is replaced by a searing, agonizing disappointment when she turns away.

He hates himself but he loves himself too for finding this feeling within him. It's finally something to coax him out of the inky, sooty abyss his mind has been bound in, only now instead he's been brought into a world where only one person matters and he can no longer decide which is worse.

She notices him more often, and he can't help but _long_ for her to talk to him. It's a burning desire and it's turned into a game in his mind- she _has_ to talk to him first. He _wants_ her to notice him; he _wants _to puzzle her, to confuse her, to make her inquisitive- for she has done the same to him for _merlin-knows-how-long_.

No one seems to be bothered about his new found obsession with lurking in the library, or being out and about on the grounds alone, or being by the lake. These are her favourite places to go and they have become his without his consent or even his realization.

He finds it impossible to understand _who_ would want to be in love. It's supposed to be this delightful emotion that lifts you above the clouds and brightens your every thought, but it isn't. It's pain, agonizing, harrowing pain that throbs and pulses all the way through his bones.

He's watching her by the lake, entranced by the way her canary yellow nails are catching the light. He's too fascinated by _her_ to realize who she's with, and what she's doing.

She's kissing someone. She's kissing Neville.

And suddenly in a frozen moment of time, the illusion is shattered. She isn't perfect, no one is completely innocent and perfect and faultless. But he loves her, and he is going to prove it to her, even if it takes up every _single_ second that he lives.

* * *

A/N- Well, this is my first Theodore/Luna… I don't know if it worked… let me know if you liked it, just a couple of words mean a lot! This is for the **Diversity Competition, Round Two**.


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